Glory's Fire
by A Deed Without a Name
Summary: Sam is dead. He'd be enjoying it a lot more if something didn't keep nagging at him. WARNING: Contains Wincest, major character death (clearly), an AU, and spoilers for the season ten finale.


**I wanted to get this up before season eleven started. Looks like I managed it - just barely.**

 **Just some headcanon and speculation about what might have happened if Dean had actually been able to bring himself to kill Sam in the S10 finale. And...I** ** _guess_** **this counts as a songfic...I don't know. "Fire, Fire" by Flyleaf popped into my head while I was writing it. Not really my usual type of music, but when I happened upon it, I thought it actually fit the Winchesters pretty well.**

 **A warning: this fic gets pretty dark. Read at your own risk.**

* * *

"C'mon, sunshine. Up and at 'em."

Sam smiled sleepily into his pillow, the fabric and the cotton batting inside warm from his head resting on it all night. Almost as warm as the callused hand on his bare shoulder, gently shaking him. He could feel the silver ring on one of the fingers pressing into his flesh.

"How come?" he mumbled, not bothering to open his eyes. "'S Sunday." It was always Sunday here. That knowledge was as heavy and comfortable on him as the comforter he was laying under.

"Yeah, but I've got pancakes waiting in the kitchen, and they're gonna get cold if you don't get your ass outta bed in the next five minutes," the owner of the hand replied. He'd stopped shaking Sam, apparently satisfied that he was awake, and was now just squeezing his shoulder. A familiar, affectionate gesture. "And I really doubt you want cold pancakes."

Sam groaned, rolling over onto his back (the hand disappeared as he did so) and finally blinking his eyes open. His lids were pleasantly sticky with sleep. He waited until the figure leaning over him came into focus, then smiled again. His older brother. Wearing jeans and a loose concert T-shirt, freshly showered and blond brush cut combed up into messy spikes. There were no crow's feet at the corners of his eyes, or bags under them. A swarm of freckles had been splashed across the bridge of his nose by hours spent out in the sun. He was in his very early twenties, probably because he'd been happiest then. Sam was the same age, as near as he could judge by looking in the mirror. There wasn't a gap between them here. That was a nice touch.

"Guess you've got me pegged," he murmured, lifting a hand. Dean took it and hauled him up into a sitting position. He snorted as the covers slipped down around Sam's hips, which were just as bare as his shoulders.

"Jesus Christ, Sam," he complained, shaking his head. He hadn't let go of his hand, and Sam rubbed his thumb over Dean's knuckles. Smooth, rounded, free of scars. "Put some goddamn clothes on."

Sam grinned, scooting across the bed. Across Dean's side of the bed, where the covers had been pulled flat and the vague hint of his form was still pressed into the pillowtop mattress beneath them. He swung his feet down onto the floor and, still holding Dean's hand, pressed himself up against him. Dean seemed, somehow, slightly taller than him here. He didn't like that quite as much as he did the age thing.

"You sure that's what you want?" he asked, seeing lust flare up in Dean's green eyes almost as soon as their chests touched.

"You have gotta be some kinda nympho," he remarked, but a smirk was tugging at his full mouth. "After last night, I'd've thought you'd be good for at least twenty-four hours." Sam shivered as he felt Dean's free hand find his ass with no warning, appreciatively cupping the curve of it. "Let's get some food in you first. Then we can see about fooling around."

Sam nodded his agreement. A little reluctantly, but he could smell the pancakes that Dean had sitting in the kitchen, and they were just as tempting as the prospect of sex right now. If not more so. Dean let go of him and stepped back so he could pull on jeans and a T-shirt of his own, but not far. Here, they'd always been together. There'd been no awkward, stuttering conversation where Sam confessed to the perversion he'd been carrying with him since puberty. He really doubted there were a lot of angels out there whose feathers didn't ruffle at the idea of an incestuous and, above all, gay relationship, but maybe being Lucifer's destined vessel guaranteed Sam special privileges. No matter how many times he'd derailed the plans that had been laid for him.

"You want coffee?" Dean asked as they wandered into their spacious, well-lit kitchen, brushing comfortably against each other, almost holding hands but not quite. Sam huffed out a laugh.

"You know I do," he replied, pulling his customary chair out from the table as Dean walked across the kitchen. There was already a stack of pancakes, buttered and drenched in exactly the right amount of maple syrup, sitting at his place. "You should know how I want it, too."

"Yeah," Dean replied, his back to Sam as he retrieved two identical porcelain mugs from a cabinet. "You want a splash of coffee in there with your milk and sugar."

Sam grinned, sitting down and picking up his fork. The pancakes looked almost too perfect to eat, just like the food here always did. Yesterday, breakfast had been waffles. The day before that, an egg-white omelette. That meal hadn't gone so well. Brought back too many memories.

"So what're your plans for today?" Dean asked, sitting down across from Sam and setting a mug brimming with creamy beige liquid next to his plate. Sam riased his eyes to him as he neatly sliced off a piece of pancake.

"You mean after we make love again?" he asked innocently, lifting the forkful to his mouth. Dean chuckled, looking down at his own pancakes as he dug into them.

"Yeah. After we make love again. You feel like writing?"

Sam made a face, but swallowed what was in his mouth before speaking. "Nah. I think I'm just gonna take a book and head outside. Maybe spread a blanket on the grass or something."

"Well, y'know," Dean began casually, before lifting his own (black) coffee to his lips, "if you're planning on putting a blanket down on the grass, we don't even really need to go back to the bedroom." He bounced his eyebrows at Sam over the rim of his mug. "Not like the neighbors are gonna see us."

Something familiar stirred between Sam's legs, and he attacked his pancakes in response to Dean's proposal, wanting to finish breakfast as fast as possible. He was focused on the contents of his plate, so he couldn't see the expression on Dean's face, but a low chuckle from him told Sam all he needed to know.

Sam left Dean in charge of the blanket while he made a quick trip to their small library. He tugged a book, for when they were done, off of one of the shelves and tucked it under his arm. He didn't bother looking at the cover or even the title; he knew from experience that it'd be something he never read before, and that he'd enjoy it.

Sam stepped outside onto their back porch, barefoot. He wouldn't get splinters from the perfectly-aligned wooden boards that made it up. The clear sky was a brilliant, blazing neon blue, a shade Sam had never seen in the thirty-three years he'd spent on Earth. Their yard was huge, beds full of oversaturated flowers and eye-wateringly green grass running down to, yes, a white picket fence. Dean was spreading a quilt, shocking yellow and white, over that grass about ten yards from the porch, and even he was almost too bright to look at, colors dialed up to an unnatural intensity.

Outside, it was easiest to remember that this place wasn't real. Sam spent a lot of time out here.

Dean had finished with the blanket. As Sam watched, he straightened up and smiled at him. Sam smiled back, feeling something warm and tender feel his chest despite Dean's too-pink lips, and stepped off the porch.

Dean met him with a kiss when he reached the edge of the blanket, not saying a word. He didn't need to, here. He started to undress Sam, slowly in the sunlight that was just the right temperature, and Sam returned the favor. Soon, he was as naked as he'd been only about half an hour earlier, laying on his back on the quilt with Dean on all fours above him. There weren't any scars on Dean's chest, and the tattoo was missing. Sam put a hand over where he remembered it being as they locked themselves together and began to move.

There wasn't any need for lube or other preparation, of course. Not here.

This wasn't Sam's eternity as he'd seen it several years back - something he reflected on as he stared up at the impossible sky and listened to Dean's huffs and grunts. Not even the parts of it that he'd been very careful to steer his brother away from as they searched for a way out had been like this. He guessed the differences were a result of him changing. He imagined that, every time a new priority surfaced for him and an old one dropped by the wayside, or he stopped enjoying something he used to, or he realized something highly important about himself, a team of angels descended on this place and made the necessary adjustments. And that was how it'd gone all the way up until the last time he'd died, and found himself in this place as it was now.

Sam was jolted out of those familiar thoughts by an unexpected orgasm. It was mind-blowing, extended, just like they always were here. He screamed and bucked under Dean. When it was over, he rolled over onto his side as Dean pulled out, comfortable and dry because the come had (as per usual) vanished almost as soon as it hit his skin and his insides. He let his eyelids fall to half-mast, feeling as warm and sleepy as he always did after sex. Probably because he'd enjoyed that sensation so much when he was alive.

"How was that, baby boy?" Dean's voice was husky and amused. Sam felt him run a rough hand affectionately over his bicep.

"I miss you," Sam replied blankly, not thinking at all about what he was saying in the rosy, post-coital glow that surrounded him right now.

Dean chuckled. The blanket shifted as he laid down behind Sam, and Sam closed his eyes when he threw an arm over him.

"What're you talking about?" he asked, sounding puzzled but still happy. "I'm right here." He patted Sam's chest. Hairless, tattoo- and scar-free pectorals. "Need me to make you feel me again?"

"No." Sam squeezed his eyes shut more tightly than they already were. He'd started; might as well finish. It'd been awhile since he last brought this up, anyway. And it was vitally important he never allow himself to forget. "The real you. That's what I miss - the real you."

Dean went still against Sam. Even stopped breathing. Sam technically didn't need to breathe, either, here, but it was a hard habit to break.

"No one likes you talking about that, Sam," Dean replied. Sam heard and felt him prop himself up on one elbow and imagined that he was probably shaking his head.

"Yeah, I figured that out pretty early on," Sam replied, opening his eyes and staring at the perfectly neat, uniform, acid-green blades of grass directly in front of his nose. "But it's not like I'm trying to break out of here. I'm not trying to find you. Couldn't you just..." He closed his eyes again. "Tell me where you are?"

Dean cleared his throat. The sound was uncomfortable, awkward. Sam felt guilty. It was a knee-jerk response.

"Look," he began. "Even if I knew where he was - and I _don't_ , they made pretty sure of that when they plugged his memories into me - I wouldn't be able to tell you." He slowly pulled his arm back, lifting it off of Sam. "Thought we'd been over this before."

"We have," Sam replied quietly, and unexpectedly, embarrassingly, he felt tears sting at the backs of his eyes. He fisted a hand in the quilt, squeezing it with all of his strength, willing himself not to cry.

"You're...you're a Winchester," Dean continued. "If you knew where he was, you might find your way out. Find your way back to him. Find a way to break that thing on his arm. And none of us can afford to take that risk."

Sam didn't reply. Not at first, anyway. But when he opened his mouth to say something, more stinging cropped up on his neck, in a thin line around it. Like a collar. He loosened his grip on the quilt a little at the familiar sensation, but his knuckles went white with strain again when the stinging turned into searing. Something hot gouted against his collarbones and the underside of his jaw. A strangled gasp slipped out of him.

"Aw, Jesus." A hand clamped down onto his head all of a sudden, fingers tangling in his hair. Dean held him firmly in place. "Sam - cut it out. Just stop thinking about it, okay? Forget what he did to you. Don't you remember what happened last time?"

"Yes." Sam concentrated, controlled his unnecessary breathing. The pain faded, eventually, and the coppery-smelling fluid evaporated from his skin. Dean's grip on him loosened, and then he let go of him with a soft sigh. Sam absentmindedly laid a hand on the side of his own neck. Where Death's scythe had hit him. Severed his carotid, then his spinal cord, then his windpipe...all in less than a second.

 _Close your eyes, Sammy._

Dean was talking again, Sam realized with a jolt. He tuned in. He opened his eyes, too, but he didn't look at him.

"You did the right thing," Dean was saying with rock-solid assurance. "You wouldn't be in Heaven otherwise."

Sam squeezed his neck. Smooth flesh, not even a scar.

"Are you sure this is Heaven?" he replied.


End file.
